It needs to be written. But the days pass by and there lacks the time. To write something beautiful, or something that makes my heart rest. I have forgotten how to press my fingers to these keys, I have forgotten how to release emotions through ink on paper. And the paper, it lies there, empty, and me I stand here open and full. There are so many things I want to change. I cannot write them out for fear I have already done so. What can be new, newly written? I do not know. I do not understand my purpose. I stare at this paragraph and am smitten with regret. For choosing the life that commits to led, for choosing the life that perhaps is not meant for me. I cannot write something beautifully. I can only write this, for now. And I am smitten with regret that I can no longer stare at my words with a sense of satisfaction. A sense of relief. It no longer comes over me. Where are the metaphors, the similes, the metres and analogies. They have escaped me. I have escaped myself. The self I hated for so long. I miss that self, and I am afraid she has drowned. She has drowned in places of not feeling good enough. How do I collect those water drops and piece them back together again? How do I find that self that was hated but was needed. I need her. I need that hated self. She was the only one who found an escape through words. She is now lost. I need her back because I need those words. I need hate. Hate is able to be changed. I cannot lose it. I want to change it.
I see my window. I want to escape. To over there. To the broken wind as it blows and then stops. I feel it, but I don’t feel it enough. I feel you, but I don’t feel you enough. I want more. Like an addict. Along the wet mulch, inhaling the smell of Spring, but begging for winter’s excuse. To be there in a bed where we lie. I don’t want you. But I want it so badly. It’s painful. I am in pain. I couldn’t let it show. I beg for the snow and the cold, for the alcohol to release me. Make me warm. I need it so bad. I don’t need it, I am not that girl. I’m not the girl who needs those feelings, but I am the girl who needs those thrusts. I need it over and over again like a needle to my arm, like a pill to my tongue, like the rain on my frizzy hair. I need it. But I don’t need it. And I can’t decide. I cannot decide if I want it or I want you. I am doomed.
It doesn't take long after turning 21 that you figure out how it works. You're at the bar with your closest friends. And maybe you repeat the act of consuming poison for days on end, spending money you're not sure if you have. And that boy that was there weeks ago is there again. You know how it goes, I'm not going to explain it. Nor am I going to detail how it goes for me. It can happen to anyone. It happens all the time.
Suddenly it's the next day, and in this day of technology, you're checking your phone. You texted him something so stupid. Why did you do that? I have to apologize, I have to make an excuse.
No. I'm so tired of making up excuses. I'm so tired for apologizing. You know what? I'm sorry for being human. I'm sorry for letting alcohol get the best of me. As a society, we need to STOP apologizing. It's not working for me any longer. I'll be who I want to be when I want to be it and I'll do what I want when I want to do it. It's not my fault. I'm young and I'm stupid. Let me be.
I like to write; point blank. This is a little piece of me that I get to share with the rest of the world, and hey, you know, maybe you'll appreciate it, maybe it'll do nothing for you. But my writing exists, and that's enough for me.
© 2019 Silvia Iorio. All rights reserved.